Good Omens Oneshots
by WowIt'sMeggie
Summary: Over the centuries, mutual toleration turned into something almost like a friendship, and something almost more. Aziraphale and Crowley never really were the perfect match, but it was as close as they'd ever get. Just a dumb series of One Shots and AUs about Azi and Crowley's somewhat dysfunctional relationship
1. An Awful Nap

**Chapter 1: An Awful Nap**

 _(3 years before the birth of the Antichrist)_

They couldn't stay around each other for long before they started taking one another apart.

Or, at the very least, Crowley would rip a rare book (luckily it had not yet been one of the bibles) in a drunken stupor, and Aziraphale would leave him outside in the damp to 'think about what he had done'. Usually the Demon was too far gone to even remember to stop the rain. Aziraphale would scoop him up the next morning and pour the soggy creature into bed until he remembered to sober up. This was the kind of normal, if slightly problematic, behaviour that was expected in these kinds of Arrangements. The Angel would simply tuck Crowley into the bed and wait for the vaguely forced apology the next morning, usually accompanied by a hangover of genuinely biblical proportions. It was nice to know that Evil was occasionally punished, even on such a petty level.

However sometimes things went a little bit further. Naturally the behaviour of most men-shaped things went a little bit further. But when the behaviour of one man-shaped Demon and one man-shaped Angel put a strain on the centuries old Arrangement, things had to stop fast. Which was why Crowley was pretty sure he hadn't been in this situation since 1968.

Aziraphale had been lay on his arm for the past hour, and any feeling that had once been attributed to it was now just a pleasant myth.

According to the angel, good was ever-vigilant (even if evil liked to take the occasional nap), and Crowley wasn't sure of the last time he had actually seen Aziraphale sleep. Crowley had received a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition, had taught the American government everything they knew about torture, and had sat back and watched most of the world take itself to pieces not once but twice in a century, with no actual work from him. But this, _this was the most uncomfortable thing he'd seen_. Mostly because for once the angel actually looked calm. Seeing Aziraphale without that ever present concern-bordering-on-anxiety was like looking at an entirely new man. For starters, the creases on his forehead unfolded, leaving nothing but a few small lines to mark where worry had once been. Or maybe it just marked the worries Aziraphale was dreaming about. Of course he'd dream about worrying, it was the only thing that gave him any pleasure. But the strangest thing about seeing Aziraphale sleep was that it was his nose that became the centre of attention. And it was cute. With no glasses, eyes closed, and an unnerving lack of worried expression, most of his face was just nose which, like most of the Angel, was rounded and somewhat soft-looking.

For a being that spent his time trying to heal all of humanity's sorrows, Aziraphale was much too soft. Someone should really look after him. Or not, considering Crowley had barely been able to survive a week here without wanting to make an attempt on the Angel's life.

A soft mumble and the shuffle of sheets marked Aziraphale surfacing from sleep, not quite awake, but just alert enough to notice that there was a limb of a man-shaped being wedged beneath his back and it was most uncomfortable. For a moment Crowley thought he was actually going to give him some relief. He could almost feel the blood rushing back to the cold, numb lump of flesh that had long ago stopped registering the warmth of Aziraphale's body. But then, when had he ever been so lucky?

By the end of the rearrangement, Anthony J Crowley had the head of an angel digging into his shoulder, a mouthful of blonde curls, and the sharpest elbow this side of Hell digging right into the softest part of his forearm. Maybe this was why good never slept. Because it was so damned uncomfortable that surely even Aziraphale, in his gently-snoring state, felt guilty. Crowley wasn't certain even the Angel could be comfortable in that position. His back was to Crowley, head forcefully wedged into the soft spot just between the demon's shoulder and collarbone. One arm was draped elegantly over his own waist, but the other had found its spot elbow first between the two bones of Crowley's forearm. How such a soft-looking angel possessed such a sharp elbow was one of the many mysteries of the world. And now was not the time to solve it.

Now was the time to nap.

Preferably as far from this sharp-edged, snoring abomination as possible. Maybe under the reading lamp on the bedside table.

Aziraphale's sleeping body barely acknowledged the shift of the once man-shaped form that had lay beside him. It may have softened slightly, relaxing back into the mattress which should have been replaced years ago (it was much too soft to do anyone's back any good), and whose springs had long ago given up fighting the weight of its occupants. Strange how, despite the rarity of the pair actually falling asleep together, the two dents in the softest part of the mattress overlapped. Two figures suck in an embrace that should, theoretically, not have been quite as uncomfortable as the Angel made it.

Regardless, the serpentine figure crawled its way toward the bedside table. While the reading lamp would be less warm than the angel's body beside him, it would be infinitely less painful. Besides, the light might wake Aziraphale up, which served him right for the savage bruise Crowley would no doubt be wearing on his arm for the next few days. He could fix it up quite easily, but why throw away mementos of such an enjoyable event?

For a moment there was virtual silence. Just the sound of scales gliding over the baby blue cotton sheets. And then a creak of bedsprings. A thump. A hissed swear.

And the snake relinquished the prospect of maintaining feeling in the end of his tail. He supposed that if Hell was going to win in the end, he could give Heaven the tiny victory of leaving him uncomfortably trapped in bed by the weight of the world's grumpiest angel.


	2. How To Avoid Friends

**Chapter 2: How To Avoid Friends And Influence People**

 _(1 year before the birth of the Antichrist)_

They couldn't stay around each other for long before they started taking one another apart.

At first it had actually been a most pleasant break from the noise and dramatics of Crowley. Like a holiday. Only not a holiday because they required planes and families with screaming children and leaving the bookstore for more than a few days. It was more like a good, long nap. Something refreshing. The kinds of rainstorm in summer that cut the temperature in half (justifying the reemergence of The Jumper) and revitalised all the parched plants that had slowly been getting crispy and dry.

The silence had been the most welcome thing. Not that a long stretch of time devoid of sound was welcome, but that Aziraphale was able to fill it with whatever he wanted, instead of Crowley's grating hiss. Mostly that was soft classical music. The kind of stuff that was just gentle enough to avoid clashing with the imagery of whatever he read. Usually Bach, though even without the more rousing pieces, it still managed to get under his skin. Heaven had a grand total of two half-decent composers. All of the others should have been Aziraphale's job to thawt. It was an Angel's burden. See a wile, thwart it. Especially if they were doing cocaine with a Demon, as was the case of most major musicians since 1900. Before that it had been other things, but always the same lurking presence. Aziraphale wondered if he had been unable to do his duty from appreciation of the music, or his inability to stop them having fun. He supposed by extension he had done good - many people found self-improvement in music, some even had semi-spiritual experiences. Maybe. Maybe it had been worth it.

At this time of night the bookshop dropped cold. Usually Aziraphale didn't mind it, layers of chunky knitted jumpers and regular mugs of cocoa maintained a pleasantly human temperature. But a shiver jarred him out of his mindful state into the reality of a January 3am. It had been a frosty day, lined with clouds that had congealed into a stormy mass as time passed. Tomorrow there would probably be snow, but the muffled rumble of occasional cars suggested that tonight the roads were barely even icy. It was too late, and too cold, to go out and get milk for more cocoa, and the Angel was much too awake to justify a nap.

His eyes drifted to the phone.

No one would be awake at this time - and rightfully so. No normal human being should be awake under such conditions, and any that were were probably up to most ungodly behaviour. Especially the one person he knew who reliably welcomed all times past midnight. Though, of course, Crowley welcomed all kinds of degeneracy. It wasn't uncommon for the duo to go years, even decades, without seeing one another, but A J Crowley had a bad habit of slithering back into the Angel's life whenever he had gone too far. Usually a bender with the kind of aftermath that required divine intervention to avoid, or a particularly messy break up with one of the more interesting humans he was so often infatuated with. Aziraphale always found himself in charge of the clean up. Even from an angelic perspective, fun and games was not so bad, but the line was drawn when people got hurt.

The phone again.

Aziraphale had been very proud of it. Two years without having to deal with a major catastrophe, clean-up, or interact with people on any meaningful scale. Of course he offered a cheerless 'hello' to the person working the till at the grocery shop, and still took delight in shoo-ing people away from his collection, but the record still stood. A marvelously serene two years. And not even a peak from any of the inhabitants of Hell. Not even Crowley. Though he did wonder what the reprobate was up to. Maybe not right now, but theoretically. The Demon did, after all, provide Aziraphale with a steady supply of tainted souls to save.

Would Crowley even answer his phone at this time?

He was probably in bed. Probably in bed with some poor soul that he'd damned. Or worse yet not in bed at all and still… somewhere. The kinds of places that Crowley frequented were not locations an Angel felt happy to think of. But the question stood. Would he answer his phone?

For a while, Aziraphale toyed with the idea in the same way that humans toyed with the more abstract end of physics. It was, theoretically, possible to call Crowley. And it was probable that if he did, the two years of blissful peace would be abruptly ruptured. And by extension, he would require yet another Demon-free holiday to fix the collateral damage and upright the life he had carved for himself on this Earth. Which he supposed was just the same as continuing as he already was. Blissfully alone. In the end, did it matter?

"Y'ello?" The Demon's voice was rough and slurred, but it was a pleasant break in the quiet. If his voice could be isolated from the pounding music in the background. Something that wasn't so much an instrumental creation as a repetitive, strobing, thump. The kinds of music played in clubs was definitely one of Hell's finer works, he'd credit them that.

"Crowley?" It was only in comparison that he realised just how quiet his voice had become. Just a whisper. Or a whimper.

"Asriphal," The Angel winced at the drunken butchery of his name, "what're you doing at this time?"

Despite his complete isolation, Aziraphale was grateful for the gloom that hid the pink flush climbing his cheeks. His public reaction to embarrassment was anger, but then this wasn't public. This was Crowley, which was something quite different. Something so warped beyond its original, cruel, nature, the Angel could almost understand it. Something almost kind. "I was…" Was what? Out of milk for cocoa? Bored?

Lonely?

"I was wanting to see if you were okay but you clearly are. Goodbye."

The Demon was cut off before he could even finish the "ciao".

Aziraphale settled for a cup of tea in one of the few mugs that was not reserved exclusively for cocoa. Which was to say it was one of the mugs used by visitors. Visitor. Crowley. The tea itself was a little stale, and despite what felt like an eternity of brewing only reached a sickly reddish brown - the kind of colour that would have been no more than pale beige if combined with milk. But it was a warmer and less problematic solution to the problem than excessive alcohol consumption in one's own company. Not that the Demon would remember any of it tomorrow, in all likelihood. He would let the snow trap the lesser mortals, and go racing around in search of his next thrill, leaving the everyone else to clean up the mess he left of the lives he touched. Last time, Crowley had just left. Just vanished. Leaving the Angel to scrub red wine stains out of the cream carpet, more unthinkable stains out of the pastel blue bedsheets, and shoo away the hoards of disgruntled people who always seemed drawn to the Demon's last known location.

Ruining lives was presumably what Demons were for, after all.

Clutching his mug of tea, the Angel meandered through his book collection toward the large window at the front of the shop. Already the first few flakes of snow had begun to float downward. Just a couple of specks in an an otherwise empty street. No sound from the neighboring shops and apartments. Not even a light on. Just the dim glow of the street lamps illuminating the first speckled snowfall of winter. Eventually came the familiar rumble of a car engine, but soon that too would pass. Most likely some poor commuter on their way back from a night shift. Non-optional night shifts were another of Hell's victories. Tired humans seemed to casually sink to depths that others wouldn't dream of. The Angel turned his back to the outside world, half in the mind to lie in bed. Sleeping seemed like a waste, but enjoying the warmth would do no harm. What stopped him was the growth of the engine rumble into a familiar roar. It was the sound of a car whose limits had been reached, laughed at, and then morphed beyond the abilities of any sane human… or respectable Demon.

A J Crowley was drunk driving at 110mph on an icy road at 4am. Aziraphale feared deeply for the wellbeing of his shop's front wall. The man-shaped creature could see in dark rooms wearing those hideous sunglasses, presumably even in this state he would be able to avoid damaging his beloved Bentley (or, more importantly, the shop), but one learnt to be distrustful around Demons of his kind. Petty creatures with a lust for power beyond their station. Destroying the livelihood of an Angel would probably earn him a commendation.

Technically the door was locked not only in conventional methods - one key, two bolts and a sliding shutter - but also in ways that a common thief couldn't understand, or walk away from. It wouldn't kill them, Heaven, killing humans desperate enough to turn to that kind of crime was unforgivable. But Aziraphale doubted they would ever return. Crowley, however, wouldn't have that problem. Virtually nothing deterred that parasite.

Maybe if he went to bed and pretended to sleep the Demon would see there was no fun to be had and go home.

While Crowley's apartment had the chic un-lived-in look of a place that was simply not lived in, the flat above the bookshop was much more of a home. Aziraphale had moved here in the early 20th century, as the Victorian slums of the area slowly made way for theatres, restaurants and the kinds of places frequented solely by struggling artists. He had been collecting furniture since then. Nothing matched exactly, but then again matching furniture was mostly reserved for the mass-produced detritus that had stolen the character out of the Demon's home. At the very least, there was a theme. Warm-toned woods, gold and tortoiseshell accents, cream carpets. The only new items were the cushions and the blanket, in a shade of pale grey-toned blue, sorted onto the sofa. He'd been delighted to stumble across the set, which Crowley had claimed matched the colour of the Angel's eyes. Aziraphale disagreed. It matched the ringfinger colour of his otherwise plain, manicured nails. And maybe the paintjob on his car. And possibly his bedding too. But definitely none of it matched Crowley's flattering perception of his eye colour.

Aziraphale's bedroom was the only part of the flat that verged on genuine mess, though it was much closer to the clutter of the shop than it was to actual dirt. Most flat surfaces had at least three books on them, though only the kinds of pulp fiction that was less exercise for the mind than it was for the eyes. Sometimes it was nice not to have to think. The right bedside table was reserved for a small stack of that year's best sellers, an alarm clock, and a bottle of pale blue nail varnish. On the other side, the table was left empty. The Angel did not look at the void of the left side of the bed. With Crowley's looming arrival it would probably be filled whether he wanted it to be or not. There never really was enough time to thoroughly clean the Demon from his life.

The familiar clicks of each lock being undone echoed through the shop below, ticking away the final moments of two peaceful years. It was too much to hope that Crowley would leave, like any civilized person would, but Aziraphale marched forward with his plan anyway, speedily undressing and sliding into bed. Drunk Crowley wanted attention and excitement, something that a sleeping Angel couldn't provide. Perhaps then he'd just slink back to whatever pit of depravity he'd come from.

There was a strange peace about the sacrifice of hope. When he wasn't worried about the imminent destruction of the past two years's quiet, the thought of Crowley's company wasn't too daunting. In fact, for the first time in much too long, Aziraphale felt the tension leached from his body, replaced only with tiredness.

Crowley's arms around him were barely above room temperature, but Aziraphale found himself sleepily shuffling closer anyway. "Hello."

"Hi." The Angel could smell the sour tang of alcohol on his companion's breath, but that hardly mattered any more.

"I missed you."

"I know."

It wouldn't end well, it never did. But for now, he was here. For now, they didn't have to be quite so lonely.


End file.
